


I count the hours (till I'll feel your breath on my cheek)

by miraclemoon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky in the ice, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Soft Stucky, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve waiting for Bucky in Wakanda, mention of masturbation, my excuse for writing sad steve missing his bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraclemoon/pseuds/miraclemoon
Summary: Wakanda is beautiful.The skies are unspoiled by fog or pollution, the flowers and vegetation saturated with such unmistakable vibrancy that it puts the red, white and blue of Steve’s uniform to shame. A true paradise on earth, if one should ever exist. Yet when sunlight stretches into his bedroom, long and lazy, it doesn’t quite reach Steve. His skin sits clammy against his bones, cold and unfeeling even in the summer heat.Bucky’s been asleep for months, and the absence sits heavy in Steve's chest like dead weight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My thoughts on how post Bucky going back into the cryo chamber would look like. Steve waiting for him in Wakanda, maybe helping T'Challa with menial tasks, but mostly fixated on when he'll get to be with him again.

Wakanda is beautiful.

The skies are unspoiled by fog or pollution, the flowers and vegetation saturated with such unmistakable vibrancy that it puts the red, white and blue of Steve’s uniform to shame. It feels almost ethereal, knowing this country actually exists – that it was not fabricated by fairy tale or dream, that this is a world not sequestered from the vivid imagination of a young child, and instead holds its place within reality. Life flows through the country, people travel through the veins of the cities and fuel its vitality like second nature, and T’Challa continues to uphold his father’s legacy, making his people proud.

There is a security here that Brooklyn’s never offered Steve before. There’s the choice for leisure mornings and crimeless nights and the promise of safety. There is a peace that sits in the air like curling smoke, light and without urgency.

But peace has never settled well in Steve’s bones, the lack of insistence an ominous reminder. He doesn’t necessarily miss rushing into a new fight or mission with the raggedness of old injuries sitting heavy in his limbs ( _at least, not anymore_ ), but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes miss the screeching of car horns from outside his window, or the bickering of neighbors that used to live in the floor above him. Here, the walls are not paper thin and the floorboards don’t creak. The room Steve is staying in does not hold the weight of old memories – the paint is fresh and the comforter new and the tiled floor a perfect reflection of the wealth of the Udaku family.

A stark contrast against the shoebox sized apartment he used to live in back in the 30’s.

Sunlight stretches into his bedroom, long and lazy, but it doesn’t quite reach Steve. His skin sits clammy against his bones, cold and unfeeling even in the summer heat.

Bucky’s been asleep for months.

The doctors are doing all they can. Rewinding the damage of 70 years of torture could never be accomplished overnight, even with some of the best physicians in the world working on his case. Steve knows that, he _knows_ that.

But it doesn’t make the wait any easier.

There’s a knock at his door, sending Steve tumbling out of his thoughts. He welcomes the intrusion, exhausted after being stuck with himself all night.

“Mr. Rogers,” the voice calls from the hallway, sweet and comforting. His shoulders relax when he recognizes it belongs to Hiba, a maid who has worked for the Udaku family long before Steve woke back up from the ice. Her voice is pure honey, and he can practically imagine her warm smile from behind the door. She distantly reminds him of his mother. Same strong eyes, firm shoulders and gentle hands that are ready to bear the weight of the world.

When he gets back to New York, he should visit his ma, put some flowers on her grave. Pay his respects.

“You have a guest. Our Majesty says she awaits for your presence by the main entrance. I am to escort you.”

 _She_.

Steve rises, scoffing. It is to no surprise that when he descends down the staircase of the estate and is brought into another one of T’Challa’s guest rooms, that he catches the sight of wavy, red hair resting against pale bare shoulders. The woman sits with her back to the entrance, enraptured by the sights outside of the window adjacent to her seat. For an assassin, Steve wonders how she keeps her skin always looking so good, as if she doesn’t regularly have to evade bullets or knives thrown her way, meant to incapacitate and disable. There is no more than the mere speckling of freckles, only discernable against the sunlight that catches against her skin.

“Nice vacation spot you’ve chosen,” the woman says, turning in his direction after a long moment. Hiba closes the door on her way out, and suddenly the silence that follows is unbearable, crippling. Even with the expectation, Steve’s chest tightens at the tangibility of Natasha before him, fingers clenching and unclenching in apprehension from the churning energy that bubbles within him. He blinks stupidly at her, at a loss of words. When she rises from her seat and approaches him, Steve is quick to meet her half way, unable to resist wrapping his arms around her the moment she’s close enough to do so.

It’s the first real hug he’s had in months, and he appreciates how she reciprocates, how her arms snake behind his back and squeeze him tight in return.

“Glad to see they’ve been feeding you,” she smiles into his neck, patting his waist. He hasn’t lost very much weight, but he credits that mostly to Hiba. She’s firm with him when he needs it, especially after his more prominent loss of appetite the last few months. With the serum, he can’t afford to skip meals, his body would start feeding on itself before he’d even notice.

“Hey Nat,” Steve responds instead, feeling too fond to bother saying anything else. He hides his face into the mess of her hair, appreciating the tickle of her curls as they press against his nose. He inhales deeply and sighs a pleased little sound at the familiarity of her scent, and Natasha hums back in approval.

 “Hi Steve,” she greets back, leaning back to press a light kiss to his cheek, “It’s good to see you.”

Steve smiles at that, his cheeks are already starting to ache. This is the most he’s smiled in the entire time he’s been here, but he can’t help it. It feels good, being close to something that he recognizes, that reminds him of home.

“I meant to come by sooner,” she says when they separate, leading him to the couch by the hand, “But, being a public enemy makes it all the harder to amend broken ties and clean up little spills.”

Steve nods, the grim reality of their situation never a stray thought from his head. He understands, Natasha shouldn’t have to spit excuses his way, he doesn’t need them.

“How’s Sam?” Steve can’t help but blurt, anxious. He left Wakanda month’s ago, and promised to keep in touch, though the last Steve heard was nearly six weeks ago, a quick phone call meant mostly to reassure his safety to his good friend. The conversation concluded with a promise that Sam would be returning to Wakanda shortly, so Steve had tried to let go of his inner Mother Hen, knowing that Sam had always been one to keep his promises. After all that had happened, Steve couldn’t fault him for needing some time to himself, to reclaim his own identity and desires without the obstruction of the Falcon or other super heroes clouding his thoughts. He needed to re-establish who Sam Wilson was.

With T’Challa’s assistance, there shouldn’t be any issues with him being arrested, but the King can only do so much after Sam had left the sanctity of his country.

“Good,” Nat reassures, quick to appease the anxiety that was slowly burning through Steve’s gut, “He’s spending time with his mother. Fury helped, he knows how to keep under the radar, but the FBI, CIA and all their mother’s have really upgraded on tracking all forms of communication made both inside and outside of the country. He’s sorry he hasn’t called lately, but he didn’t want to risk anything.”

“As long as he’s okay.” Steve offers, grateful that Sam could reacquaint with his family. After being an international criminal, that had been his primary concern. Never being able to see his family again.

Steve chews at his bottom lip, unable to swallow down the guilt that has found refuge in his chest. Natasha’s gentle hand rests against his knee, firm and present as he tries to stay in the moment, to not allow his thoughts to consume him all over again. Her lips have curled into a soft smile, strands of hair framing her rosy cheeks.

Her hair is shorter now, a semblance to the bob she used to wear during their battle of New York. To think, that had been years ago.

“Maybe I’ll go to the beach later, after I speak with our Majesty. You should join me, you clearly haven’t been getting any sun.”

Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Here to pay your respects?”

Steve doesn’t expect Nat’s smile to falter at that, her grip tightening on his knee. It’s a minute change, but Steve senses it immediately, naturally sitting straighter.

“Yes,” she answers after a long moment, maintaining eye contact, “Though you’ll be happy to hear that I’m not just here to ruffle your hair and call you a good boy. There was something I wanted to discuss with T’Challa.”

Steve blinks, surprised for a moment. But this is Natasha he’s speaking with, ever the resourceful one even in her most genuine of intentions. Steve nods in response, albeit confused. T’Challa would have no business concerning the Avengers, and it is likely not in regards to the Accords, after Wakanda’s separation from those international orders. Steve swallows thickly, panic quickly lancing his expression, because what else would it be about except –

“Bucky?” the name tears out from his throat, ugly and without finesse. Are the States demanding for his head, desperate to schedule the day they put him at the stake in what they define as an act of justice? Adrenaline is already surging through his system, and Steve’s hand clenches into a fist. He’d rather die at the hands of the US army then ever give Bucky up. He refuses to let another victim be subjected to the flippancy of an uncooperative system, and he’ll be damn certain that doesn’t happen to his dear friend.

“Calm down,” Natasha soothes softly, bringing her hand over to caress at his fist, nudging the fingers apart, “Wanda and I have been talking. She couldn’t be here today, but I’ll be speaking with T’Challa and Barnes’ physicians today. We might be able to help in dismantling his trigger words.”

Steve stares blankly at her, eyes wide.

“ _Might_.” she repeats, crushing that little bit of hope that sparked through Steve’s gaze, “I have first-hand experience with having to consciously disrupt it, and Wanda can focus more on the neurological connections. Try and make it so that certain synapses don’t fire anymore when they originally would be activated, restore his brain back to before Hydra’s programming.”

Steve stares dumbly at her, trying to repress the flare of hope that courses through his body. He licks his dry lips, swallowing hard.

“But there’s no guarantee.”

“Nothing ever is, Steve. There was no guarantee you’d survive the serum, remember?” Her long fingers curl around the length of his wrist, long nails gently scratching against his skin. He still remembers how fragile his bones used to be, he used to get sprained wrists all the time just from punching fella’s in the jaw anytime they said something that didn’t sit right with him. He thinks distantly of the memories, how he couldn’t be farther away from his earlier Brooklyn days. A rush of nostalgia sits heavy in his chest, and he tries not to remember the intimacy of those days, and how if there was anyone who should be thinking about returning to those days, it would be Bucky.

“It’s going to take some time. Wanda’s familiar with the human brain, but she doesn’t exactly know what she’s looking for. It’ll take time just figuring out the patterns of Barnes’ brain, not to mention how these plans will coincide with what his doctors already have organized.”

She scoots closer to him, her arm pressing against his.

“This isn’t going to take place tomorrow, and I can’t exactly say when it’ll start.” Her eyes stare intently at him, voice low but firm.

 “If you miss home, we can get you back to New York. I won’t say it’s not risky, but maybe it’ll be good for you, leaving for a bit. Just until we figure out a plan.”

Steve thinks about every worst case scenario possible if he leaves. He thinks of something going wrong, of not immediately being there in the moment Bucky needs him. Even if he’s asleep, he still needs company. A friend. Who would he be to deny him of that? He’s lived the majority of his life alone and without the security of a companion, and to know that Steve would be another example of that, choosing his own frivolous desires over Bucky’s need for comfort, makes the bile in his body churn.

“I have to stay,” he responds, the answer quick on his tongue, “I can’t just…go.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asks, and Steve watches the small curl of her lips, how she can’t keep the pity from bleeding into her expression.

Both, he doesn’t say.

 

 

Steve dreams about the ocean sometimes.

It’s not always awful, he thinks distantly, the last remnants of drowsiness drifting away like soft tides as he rolls deeper into the mattress, aching to return back to that lucid, warm space of subconciousness. The sky is blue, there is the spotting of land in his periphery. No ice.

He’s not sure if it’s necessarily one of Wakanda’s beaches, but the sand is still white and there are seashells that wash ashore, poking over blankets of the seabed. Dogs run across the wet sand and leave behind perfect little foot prints, couples walking side by side in a reflection of domesticity that never seemed suitable for a soldier.

The sea foam tickles in between Bucky’s toes, feather like kisses that are gone just as quickly as they came. They stay there for hours, the two of them, finding hermit crabs that have rolled onto their backs, collecting sand dollars to take home. Bucky’s stubbled cheek tastes salty when Steve kisses it, until it doesn’t.

There is the luxury of patience in this dream, the option to caress and hold and not have to count the seconds before they separate.

Fingertips lazily caress relaxed shoulders, scanning over muscles that are no long coiled tight from exertion.

The water never rages in these dreams. The tides are never violent, never pulls them in with the desire to drown them. The sunset glows against Bucky’s warm skin, and Steve can’t tell if the blood is rushing through his ears or it’s the waves dancing at freeform, because suddenly the only thing he can think about is how gratifying it feels to fill the hollowness of his chest, to walk the earth again knowing he has a purpose.

There is no burden of shame for indulging in this moment. The world may be crying for their heads and demand retribution in the form of their lives, but Steve is unbothered, unfazed.  Bucky is looking at him like he’s hung the moon and all of its glorious stars, and Steve can’t think, can hardly breathe from the flowers that are sprouting through his lungs.

Right now, there is only them.

 

 

“I thought of you last night.” He says dully into the empty space of the room, immediately scoffing. Understatement of the year, when is he _not_ thinking of Bucky?

Steve taps the blunt end of his pencil against his half finished sketch, chewing on his bottom lip in unrelenting concentration. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words quickly die in his throat, a chuckle taking its place instead. Blue, hooded eyes scan the length of the room, desperate for something to attach to, a little embarrassed to look Bucky in the face even when the guy isn’t fucking conscious. _God_ , he’s such a teenager.

He remembers the tickle at the base of his spine last night, the tightness in his thighs as he sank deeper into the mattress. He remembers the fragility of the moment, cautious to indulge, to feed this candle that was slowly growing into a bonfire, but reunified curiosity in allowing himself to let go.

He thought of the crest of Bucky’s lips, the sultry curl of his smile. He thought of Bucky’s long hair tickling at Steve’s shoulders when he took him from behind, devout kisses sprinkled across the nape of his neck. Strong, calloused hand, combined with plates of metal holding him down, roaming across expanses of skin that begged to be touched, raged desperately for attention. Heat laced through his body, throat going hoarse from willing to keep the sounds down, but he's always been so weak to Bucky, so weak even from the mere thought of him.

Steve feels the highpoints of his cheeks grow warm, the tips of his ears starting to flush. His fingers messily run through his unstyled hair, and Steve laughs again, enlivened.

“Jeez, Buck,” Steve smiles, fond as he shifts in his seat. It was his first moment with himself since they’ve arrived to Wakanda, since Bucky’s been back in the ice. If he excludes the spike of desolation that surged through his chest the moment he finished, it was oddly humane regaining that sense of himself, being reminded that sex is still something he’s capable and willing of doing. That he still wants it. 

Steve pushes his seat back, stepping towards the cylinder chamber.

Steve’s forehead bumps against the hollow glass, cold and unfamiliar, yet holding comfort in knowing Bucky is in there. His breath fogs at the panel, obscuring part of the sleeping man’s face.

His palm pushes at the glass, testing the pressure.

“Nat says she’d help,” His voice is hardly above a whisper, as if the information was given in secrecy. “Wanda, too. It’s been hard for them, after everything’s happened, but…they want to help. Who knows, maybe –“ Steve stops,

 _Maybe you’ll wake up_ , he doesn’t say, won’t say, because this isn’t about him, this is about getting Bucky healthy, restoring his sense of autonomy after living most of it ripped away from him. Steve pauses for a moment, recollecting himself. His heart rages against the cryochamber, not even bothering to watch the door if anyone steps in.

“I’m here,” Steve says after a long moment, fingers curling around the cold glass, nails scratching and sliding, desperate for something to hold onto. Bucky lays there unmoving, the only indication that life is still surging through his body the small projector towards Steve’s side that monitors his vitals. Steve looks at his stubbled cheeks, his long hair. He looks at the curl of his lashes and watches his chest, proud to see it rise and fall with each passing breath.

“I’m here, Buck. I’m not leaving you.”

 _I can’t_ , Steve doesn’t say, _I won’t_.

“We’ll find a cure, I promise. Hopefully before your big centennial,” Steve chuckles, the laugh genuine as he slowly pushes against the glass, re-establishing distance.

He takes a long, wistful look, just like he does every day before he leaves, before he returns back into his bedroom.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Buck.”

And with that, he grabs his sketchpad,

 _I love you_ , he doesn’t say, no urgency rushing through his veins.

He’d rather wait until Bucky’s awake to hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is why I can never finish anything, because I start new mini projects before I finish previous ones! Mini update: still working on part 2 of the prewar stuck series and part 2 of the nightmare series! Thank you all so much for reading, and please comment/kudos if you enjoyed~
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://badbrooklynbitch.tumblr.com/) c: I love making new friends!!


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